


Boundaries

by slateblueflowers



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Banter, Demon Summoning, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Summoning Circles, Tw: The Da Vinci Code, dumb arguments, heavy handed tape metaphors, some gross description of wounds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:35:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25502218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slateblueflowers/pseuds/slateblueflowers
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale's dinner is rudely interrupted by a demon summoning.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 40
Kudos: 150
Collections: Holly Jolly July: a Good Omens Gift Exchange





	Boundaries

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Crowley Mowley (JoulesBurn)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoulesBurn/gifts).



> This fic was written for the Holly Jolly July gift exchange on the GO Events discord server! 
> 
> To the lovely Joules Burn | CrowleyMowley. Happy Christmas!

“I won’t hear another word of it!”

“Angel, you’re being ridiculous.”

“I most certainly am not! Claiming _The Da Vinci Code_ is a classic is preposterous. Heretical, even.”

“It’s got puzzles! Codexes! Art! Action, adventure! You can’t go wrong with a book like that. ‘Sides, we can both agree it’s a page-turner. You were so caught up in it I had to reheat your cocoa nine times from across the room so it didn’t turn to sludge.”

“Well it certainly was exciting, I’ll give you that. But the book is simply riddled with historical inaccuracies.”

“Inaccuracies, schminaccuracies. It’s fiction!”

“Yes, but we _knew_ Mary Magdalene, her namesake deserves better!”

“Mary was an absolute gift. You know we used to braid each other’s hair? But that doesn’t change – stop rolling your eyes – that doesn’t change the fact that this book, here, in the twenty-first century, is a fast-paced historical thriller for the ages!”

“Well what about the half-baked romance?”

“Nobody cares about that, angel.”

“Well I do.”

“ _Well I do.”_

“Stop mocking me.”

“ _Stop mocking me.”_

“Crowley, stop that this instant!”

“ _Crowley, st-“_

“That’s it! I’ve had enough. I refuse to entertain this. I’m not speaking to you any longer.”

Crowley looked aghast, his mouth hanging slightly open as he was for once without a retort. Not for long, however. “You’re not speaking to me _?_ How is that – what does – _what_?” Aziraphale looked smugly triumphant. “You know what, angel? Fine. Be like that.” Crowley detached himself from where he was draped lazily across Aziraphale’s lap. “I’m not gonna sit on the sofa with you. I’m gonna sit on this chair until you admit I’m right.”

Aziraphale raised a withering eyebrow.

“A-and you can’t come to this side of the room. As a matter of fact,” thin red tape appeared in Crowley’s hand which he began to lay on the ground bisecting the back room of the bookshop, “you’re not even allowed past this line. No leaning on me when you have too much wine tonight, angel, oh ho! This is _my side_ and you can’t join me. I’m staying over here.”

Aziraphale took in a breath as if he were about to speak but cut himself off. A horn blared from the street. Crowley turned to look out the window at the darkening evening. The sound of a throat clearing brought Crowley’s attention to the sofa, where Aziraphale was checking his pocket watch.

“Oh. Right. Dinner’s soon, shall we head out?”

Aziraphale’s eyes sparkled at the mention of dinner. He stood and looked pointedly towards the door, remaining silent, and gestured for Crowley to lead the way.

“Oh, we’re still doing this, then?”

Aziraphale started towards the door wordlessly but stopped abruptly, gazing placidly at Crowley. Leaving the bookshop would involve crossing the tape.

Crowley sighed and snapped his fingers. The tape now allowed Aziraphale to walk through the left half of the doorway, which he did with his usual poise, staring straight forward and snapping his fingers on his way out. Crowley felt the ethereal shift that accompanied miracles and peered the recesses of the vacant bookshop, letting out a groan at the red tape that was now beige and blue tartan. He blinked heavily and closed the shop doors behind him.

When he slid into the driver’s seat of the Bentley, he expected the angel to drop the act and begin the usual aimless chatter or squeal with dismay at his driving, but neither occurred. Instead, he noticed a strip of thin tartan tape separating the passenger seat from the driver. Pulling out from the kerb, Crowley mentally chastised himself for thinking Aziraphale would be anything less than thoroughly, stubbornly petty about books. He suppressed a grin.

When they reached the restaurant, Aziraphale deigned to let Crowley handle the reservation, choosing only to offer a radiant smile at the hostess in lieu of his typical warm thanks. Crowley pursed his lips. If Aziraphale was going to drag their squabble out into the public, Crowley was going to give as good as he got.

As soon as they settled into their chairs, Crowley snapped his fingers again, creating a line of red tape across the circular table for two. Aziraphale smirked at Crowley, who returned the look and held his stare in defiance.

A waiter materialized beside them, barely registering in Crowley’s periphery, and he placed his usual order for an outrageously expensive bottle of Bordeaux, continuing to hold Aziaphale’s eyes in a staring contest that the waiter found not unfamiliar but definitely irritating. When it came time for Aziraphale to place his order, his mouth opened once again on instinct to begin a litany of requests. Quickly snapping his mouth shut, Aziraphale’s eyes turned from smugly hardened to imploringly round – two blue pleas requesting amnesty for his food.

Crowley held his stare for a few moments longer. The angel’s shoulders drooped.

Christ’s sake.

“He’ll start with the calamari, and then the veal parmesan with grilled asparagus.”

The blue pleas turned to blue amused gratitude. Crowley harrumphed, ducking his eyes and refusing to admit to himself how quickly that look warmed his insides.

Tonight it also seemed to be warming his fingertips. And making them tingle a bit. Which was weird, because that didn’t usually happen when Aziraphale gave him looks he couldn’t quite handle. But the tingling was spreading through his hands and up his arms now, quickly approaching his shoulders.

Crowley brought his hands out in front of him and turned them back and forth, frowning.

The tingles reached his shoulders and Crowley brought his hand to his chest, bending double in his seat.

The reality of the situation hit Crowley like a freight train as he snapped his head up to Aziraphale, gasping. He reached a hand out and managed “Aziraphale, I’m-“ before the words were lost as the restaurant disappeared around him.

\--

Slowly, a grand but empty ballroom became visible around him. Crowley crumpled, his knees hitting the hardwood floor harshly, and put one hand out flat to support his weight. His chest heaved with the effort of being pulled through space against his will to wherever this room was located, and though his limbs had stopped tingling, he became aware of a burning sensation on his wrists. His eyes focused on the hand in front of him, taking in a glistening silver shackle that was currently singeing the hair off his wrists.

Crowley gasped, reeling backwards at the sight. The shackle rattled the chain attached to a small metal ring protruding from the ground, which Crowley now realized was in the center of a glowing white circle. Words followed the path of the chalk outline in Latin. Bad Latin. Latin people learned once at a young age and then promptly forgot.

It had been years since Crowley had been properly summoned. If he were being honest, he would have thought these sorts of things would end after the failed Armageddon, but he wasn’t completely surprised. He recognized his name in the jumble of Latin before him. After all, he didn’t stop being a demon just because he retired. Still a demon, still technically bound by demon-specific summoning laws.

He took a deep breath. Leave it to Crowley to be summoned in the middle of a perfectly pleasant evening with his partner.

Crowley began exploring his options for escape, first trying to snap his fingers to no avail. That was expected – summoning circles were notorious for stifling demonic power with just a few key phrases.

He kicked a leg out to test the limits of the circle next. If he was very lucky, the humans would have forgotten to indicate that the enchantments trapped demons beyond just summoning them. His mind brought forth the unlucky group of sixteenth century nobles who had tried summoning The Demon Crowley on a lark. They had overlooked the binding ritual, which Crowley had very quickly demonstrated to them as he sauntered out of the sunken courtyard and covered their clothing with cockroaches. 

Crowley’s boot hit a barrier before he could extend it fully, the force of it reverberating painfully through his leg. No such luck this century, then. He shook his leg out a bit to dissipate the discomfort, furrowing his brow as his eyes darted around the room. He turned on the spot, inspecting the Latin for any inconsistencies or misspelled words. For such rudimentary Latin, the spelling was impeccable and left no easy loopholes for Crowley to exploit. 

The burning of the silver cuffs became unignorable. He held them up to his nose and inhaled, choking slightly at the overpowering stench of ozone and sunlight. Blessed cuffs. Shit.

A door at the end of the ballroom opened with a creak and four figures in hooded scarlet robes advanced towards the circle. Falling back on centuries of carefully fabricated insouciance, Crowley forced his shoulders to relax and spread his legs out as much as he could without activating the barrier. He plastered a lazy grin onto his face.

“So, what’ll it be, folks?” Perhaps his summoners were after a quick miracle or two and could be persuaded to release him before too much longer.

The hooded figures had halted their approach several feet from the circle, keeping a safe distance between them and the demon. Though they wore hoods, Crowley could see that his question caught them off guard as they shifted nervously on their feet. Three hoods turned towards the fourth, clearly the leader, who spoke.

“Demon Crawly – “

“Crowley.”

“Demon _Crawly_ , we summon you so that you may face divine retribution for your sins. Your demonic existence is an affront to Heaven, and the Lord wishes to rid you from this Earth.”

“Mmm, really?” Crowley replied, propping his chin on one drawn up knee and steadfastly ignoring the smoke rising from his now smoldering skin.

“Yes, really. We are bidden by the Lord our God to carry out His Will. Prepare for your end.”

“Oh, His will, then? Guys, I’m not super sure you’re the foremost experts on divine providence. Are you sure about this?”

“Silence!” another hooded figure stepped forward. “You will pay for your impertinence!” They withdrew a vial from their robe and removed its stopper. The figure strode forward and knelt outside the circle, muttering under their breath as they poured the contents onto the chalk outline. The outline began to glow and the liquid followed the chalk around the circle, steaming. It smelled of ozone and sunlight.

Crowley brought his legs in to his body immediately. The steam seemed to seek him out, swirling within the circle. Crowley choked before he remembered he didn’t have to breathe, but the steam stung at his face and neck. Spluttering, Crowley ducked his head underneath his arms, attempting to cover as much of himself with his clothing as possible.

“Ah, he recognizes it! What a smart demon,” crooned the third figure, “Perhaps we can…put him to good use before we move on to the main event?”

Goosebumps appeared on the part of Crowley’s arms not currently blistering under the shackles.

“Ooh, a lovely idea, Wilmington. Shall we, then?” The leader turned to address Crowley. “Demon Crawly, as we have summoned and restrained you here, you are to grant our requests before you are put to death. Our first request – “

“You’re not getting shit from me now,” Crowley snarled, body shivering with adrenaline.

“Our first request,” the figure continued, pitching their voice above Crowley’s, “is the discontin-“

The entrance to the ballroom exploded. Bits of wood and metal flew through the air, narrowly missing the robed figures. Light from the hallway beyond blazed through the doorway. A figure stood in silhouette, still for a moment among a cloud of dust.

“Oh, I really wouldn’t finish that sentence, my dear.”

Crowley lifted his head. “Aziraphale,” he breathed, coughing at the lingering holy water vapor.

“Who the fuck are you?” the lead robed figure asked loudly, scrambling away from the circle towards a bag on the floor. The other three charged towards Aziraphale, having produced small daggers from the depths of their cloaks.

“Just a moment!” proclaimed Aziraphale, holding up a placating hand. The robed figures paused. “Can’t we go about this reasonably? I’m just here to pick him up,” he gestured at Crowley, “and we can all go back to our days.”

“He’s our demon, stranger,” cried a robed figure. “Ours to keep and ours to command! You won’t lay a hand on him.”

Crowley couldn’t make out Aziraphale’s eyes through the haze, but he knew instinctively that the figures were now on the receiving end of the same withering stare Crowley had faced earlier that day.

“Really now, I’m sure we can come to some sort of agreement.” Aziraphale’s tone was light, but Crowley spotted a subtle change in his stance.

“Yeah, the agreement is you leave, and you leave without him!”

“Very well.” Aziraphale closed the gap between him and the nearest robed figure, knocking the dagger from his hands easily and fisting his hands in the scarlet robes. “If you won’t agree to release him, I’ll have to do it myself.” He tossed the figure aside, sending him sliding across the room. He hit the wall with a thud, rubbing his head.

The remaining two figures exchanged looks from under their hoods, choosing to rush to their fallen companion rather than stay and tangle with the deceptively strong newcomer.

Unfortunately, the leader made themself known once again, placing themself squarely between Aziraphale and Crowley and holding up the vial they had retrieved from their bag. Colorless liquid sloshed in the glass above his head. Crowley flinched away as much as the circle would let him.

“Take one more step and I ruin him for both of us!”

The sound echoed through the ballroom. Aziraphale remained still as if frozen in place, fiery gaze focused on the vial. Tension tugged at the corners of his mouth.

Aziraphale shifted. He didn’t move physically, but his form shifted. He was no longer entirely corporeal, as his body remained rooted where it stood, but tendrils of smoke formed above his head. The smoke coalesced into a cloud. An eye appeared in the center, opening slowly. More eyes appeared, dotting the cloud and giving the impression that the being saw _everything_ , physical and not.

“ _Leave_.” A voice rang through the ballroom, coming from nowhere but audible everywhere. No one moved.

“ _Leave!”_ The voice repeated, somehow feeling heavier than before, pressing in on all sides.

The leader started, hastening to place the vial on the floor with care. “There you go! It’s there. I’m just…going to…” The unfinished sentence dangled as he grabbed his bag and moved briskly towards the door.

The cloud began to dissipate, taking the eyes with it, as Aziraphale rolled his shoulders and flexed his fingers before dashing forward, paying no mind to the frenzied rush of hooded figures skittering from the room. He headed directly towards Crowley and picking up his pace as he took in Crowley’s state.

“Oh, my dear, what have they done to you? Are you alright?” He knelt immediately, breaching the summoning circle easily and reaching to unclasp the shackles.

“I’m fine, angel. Just get me out of here.”

“Of course,” he replied softly. Removing the shackles from Crowley’s wrists exposed rings of blackened skin. Tentatively, Aziraphale reached out to brush his finger across the wound comfortingly, intending to heal the skin.

Crowley leaned forward, closing his eyes and resting his forehead on Aziraphale’s. “Angel, please. Let’s get out of here first.” His voice was quiet, strained. Aziraphale nodded.

“Alright, darling, up you get. Can you stand?” He helped Crowley to his feet, placing one arm around his shoulder to support his weight while carefully avoiding bumping his wrists.

“Wait, angel, wait. The ring. It’s holy water. I can’t cross it.”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Aziraphale said exasperatedly, rubbing his shoe on the ground vigorously to break the circle. “How about now? Ridiculous humans…”

Crowley stumbled forward, leaning on Aziraphale and coughing at the dust and residual holiness of the summoning area. “Home, angel?” He faintly registered the sound of snapping fingers, the rush of ether, and the comforting smell of parchment and cocoa before losing consciousness once again.

\--

Crowley awoke to the sound of light snoring. Keeping his eyes closed, he felt the familiar plush warmth of a certain tartan comforter wrapped around him and allowed himself a moment to enjoy the friendly chatter of a Soho night outside the window. The smell of sandalwood and paper reached his nose. He opened an eye. Aziraphale was next to him on the bed, slouched forward over an open book and still wearing his reading glasses.

Crowley reached out a hand to prod his thigh gently and caught a flash of white. Both of his wrists had been carefully bandaged.

Aziraphale stirred, returning to wakefulness with a small snort and a sniff. He cast his eyes about wildly, landing quickly on Crowley’s.

“You’re awake,” he smiled, voice thick with sleep. “How do you feel?”

“Like I was summoned and surrounded by holy water.” Aziraphale clucked sympathetically. Crowley gave a small grin. “Like I was rescued by a dashing angel.” He leaned forward, planting a kiss on the beige-clad thigh and nuzzling his face into the fabric.

“My dear, I was so worried. You disappeared from dinner – I didn’t know what to do. Finally I realized that you had a…what’s it called…locator application installed on your mobile that I was able to track here on my own computer. I headed to you as quick as I could, but I regret I wasn’t there sooner…”

“Angel, it’s fine. I’m here.” He paused. “It’s about time you rescued me for a change.” Crowley’s voice betrayed a sly smile buried in Aziraphale’s thigh. “Thank you for wrapping me up, by the way,” he added, waggling a wrist in the air.

“I did what I could for your arms. The cuffs did a number on your skin, and since it’s a holy wound on a demon, the healing isn’t as complete as I’d like it to be. Your skin will need time to heal on its own, but you should be safe from any lasting effects.”

“You’re amazing, angel.”

“Crowley, you know what this means, though.” He lifted his head from Aziraphale’s thigh, eyebrows arched expectantly. “This bed is on my side of the bookshop, and thus, the flat. You’ve crossed the line.”

“Really?” Crowley asked drily.

“Really.”

Silence hung in the air.

“The ending of _The Da Vinci Code_ was kind of crap.”

“Does that mean – “

“No, you’re still wrong, angel. But I think we can reach some sort of middle ground.”

Aziraphale glanced sideways at Crowley and said coyly, “Some sort of…other side…to the argument?”

“Jesus, angel, don’t get sappy on me.”

“I’m not!”

“None of this ‘our side’ nonsense again. It’s old hat.”

“It’s cute!”

“It’s not.” Crowley shoved his face back into Aziraphale’s thigh. “I will only accept the usage of ‘middle ground,’” he grumbled.

“Yes, dear.” Aziraphale placed his book and glasses on the nightstand, miracling himself into soft tartan pajamas and scooting under the covers. He cocooned Crowley in his arms and settled into a pleasant sleep with Crowley beside him, in the bed that belonged to them.

**Author's Note:**

> yell at me on tumblr @puppy-bums


End file.
